


Trust in the UPS

by Finnboy (Wobin)



Category: The X-Files
Genre: Alternate Universe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-03-23
Updated: 2005-03-23
Packaged: 2019-02-05 17:53:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 701
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12799332
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wobin/pseuds/Finnboy
Summary: Alex commits a crime.  . o O("Bad boy. No cookie.")





	Trust in the UPS

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written as a gift-fic for GeorgiaPeach, I have no idea where you are now, I hope it's still good =D

Alex smiled to himself in satisfaction as he drove down the suburban street. Another job done in his list of 'anti' crimes, an effort to reverse his old habits and take on newer, more constructive actions. The mob boss he'd just visited had been successfully 'Whitemailed, as Alex had threatened the Italian with exposure about his generous yet anonymous donations to a nearby battered wives clinic. The poor evil man just didn't know what had hit him. 

 

As he meandered through the streets, he noted how the street names seemed to have somewhat of a theme, and it niggled at his memory. After making some random turns down the English focussed streets and lanes it finally came to him. He knew someone who lived close by, but he hadn't seen them for quite some time. Well, at least not outside his dreams, anyway. He grinned to himself as he drove onto a main road and parked just down the street from his intended destination. Opening his glove box, he pulled a list of his 'crimes' to do out and carefully ticked off the 'White'mailing. Scanning down, he ticked off another one. It was time to do some 'Breaking and Decorating'. 

 

Soon enough, he was outfitted in khaki shirt, tight shorts, and baseball cap, to further avoid suspicion, and sauntered up to the door with clipboard and parcel. Pretending to press the doorbell, he waited a short while before dramatically shaking his head and checking his watch. He trotted around the back of the house and listened closely to the door before letting himself in. With the aid of some, shall we say; mechanical assistance. 

 

He silently shut the door behind him and slipped the lockpicks into his shorts before surveying the rooms before him, rubbing his hands together in anticipation. He ghosted into just about every unoccupied room in the house, neatening things up, putting things away, the usual. He carefully avoided the one room where the sounds of frantic typing could be heard and smirked to himself as he listened to the muttering of an artist at work. 

 

He was just in the kitchen, cleaning the stove when with a click, all the electronics in the house shut down, only to whir back to life a short time later. He wouldn't have given the event much thought, as just another power outage, if it were not for the bloodcurdling scream that accompanied it. Old instincts had him almost at the door and ready to run before he identified the owner of the scream. He crept his way to the door of the computer room and listened in, only to flinch back at yet another scream of anger and woe. He winced at some the language used to berate a hapless piece of equipment that failed to save, but took notes for most of the rest of the harangue. Biting his lip in sympathy, he heard the furious typing take up once more, with an almost manic speed. 

 

He made his way back to the kitchen and he, the fridge, pantry and stove soon made quick work of a large mug of hot chocolate. Generously laced with liquor, naturally. Balancing the mug and a small plate of Tim tams, he'd retrieved from his truck (after sampling one or two, of course), he carefully made his way up to the room housing the computer and harried writer. Slipping into the room, he placed the plate and mug at the elbow of the focussed woman and grinned at the muttered yet distracted thanks. He pressed his lips to the top of her head and slipped out of the room and house. 

 

Another job well done, he told himself and patted himself on the back. 

 

Meanwhile, Georgia glanced to the side and noticed the steaming mug and cookies. She tried to remember the last five minutes but her stressed mind could only conjure up images of a nice arse in khaki shorts, glimpsed out of the corner of her eye. Feeling the memory of lips upon her head, she smiled as she sipped at the mug then narrowed her eyes at the monitor and pounced on the story like a lioness in the Serengeti.


End file.
